


Mixed Nuts

by Belmont



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Crack Treated Seriously, East Coast Reference for Days, Implied Relationships, M/M, One Word Prompts, implied polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-12-23 23:41:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12000375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Belmont/pseuds/Belmont
Summary: A cowboy and a bodyguard decide not to quit their day jobs, but nobody complains.





	Mixed Nuts

**Author's Note:**

> I had these one-word drabbles from my old rp tumblr sitting on my desktop for a year, so I figured I'd post them since this ship gets like, no love.  
> Semi-crack, but it's up to you if you wanted to take them seriously. Some implied mature content in one drabble, if that makes you uncomfortable please don't read on. 
> 
> Also has some nuanced specific references, sorry, but when I rp'd Jesse he was living in Florida at the time lmao.

Stew

It looked like a bowl of chili powder, tomato sauce, and canned beans. In fact, that’s …actually all it was. Jesse was cutting away at a bell pepper, but Mako loomed over his shoulder with dark eyes focused on the contents of the pot through foggy lenses. He called it cowboy stew, soup, something along those lines, but the junker couldn’t quite fathom what was ‘cowboy’ about it aside from the fact it was prepared by Jesse McCree. 

”Y’all like peppers? I ‘unno if they got them fresh in nuclear wastelands but these little bastards are sweet as can be.” He dropped a few slices in the pot, glancing at the subtle tilt of the bodyguards head when they sunk into the sauce. “Then again, I don’t think they got no Trader Joe’s in nuclear wastelands either. I feel for ya, I do.” A grunt, and ringed fingers caught a slice of pepper mid-toss before it could fall victim to the tomato sauce like its brethren. 

There was a few moments of silence, and the slicing continued while Mako pondered the sweetness of peppers grown by some (vegetable?) trader named Joe. Whoever he was, his peppers weren’t half bad. 

Another two slices found a place at the edge of the cutting board, and Jesse waved a hand when the junker stared at them inquisitively. “Ya coulda told me you liked ‘em,” The brunette smirked, shrugging. “-woulda got more than just enough for stew.” 

 

Fluffy

A rare sight was the bodyguard in the absence of his boss, but an even wilder concept was Mako without his mask. Right now, Jesse had the privilege? Misfortune? Opportunity, either way, to see the man without either. Oh, the benefits of being forced to stay in the same hotel as other Overwatch peripheries were endless. Just the other night, he watched D.va and what he assumed to be Genji Shimada (he hadn’t seen the kid for years, but he’d never forget that grating voice) fighting over a dance game in the recreation room. Where else would you get to witness absolute bullshit like that?

Now this, this room was a disaster zone in all respects of the word; it had to belong to the junker duo. Nobody else would hoard boxes of explosives in a Marriott. 

The older junker’s large body was partially covered by a bedsheet, a pillow conveniently pressed to the side of his head as if to purposefully obscure any passerby of the room to a glimpse of the true identity of Roadhog. More likely than that, Junkrat probably propped the pillow there to stifle the giant’s wheezing while they slept. Jesse wandered inside as cautiously as he could manage, just in case the arsonist was hiding about somewhere-- probably armed with a grenade launcher. 

But alas, there was nobody but the two of them. Maybe ‘rat was on the search for Hanzo? It’d be ironic, but probably not far fetched. There was treasure to be had, after all.

His true fingers carded through fluffy graying hair, moving it out of the way of a round face and tired eyes. Mako was… fairly handsome, at least in Jesse’s opinion, and the narrow scar through his lip, broad nose, and thick, tightly drawn brows only seemed to make him more regal. The cowboy pet him fondly for a few more moments, blinking at the breathing apparatus shoved up along the bedside (sleep apnea? Shouldn’t he be wearing it now--), before a meaty hand wrapped tight around his wrist. 

”Who let you in?” One blue-green eye, half lidded, squinted up at him. McCree quirked his lips and gestured at the door with his prosthetic. “Junkrat left the room open, so I couldn’t help m’self.” 

With a drawn out sigh, he released the gunslinger and let the hand return to fluffing his hair fondly. That little bomb-totting idiot would get a lecture after this, that much was certain. 

 

Summon

Their brief meetings eventually escalated.  
More often then not, they’d come across one another as a result of Junkrat’s global money grub antics, or Hanzo’s indomitable anger keeping him restless. When they met, it was out of convenience and need for relief from chaos. Rarely did they intend to get anything more from each other than a quiet conversation; maybe dinner, too. 

”Y’all know when he’s gettin’ out of jail?” His back was pressed to the wood rails of the porch, seated barefoot on the front steps. McCree rented this place the past few days in Florida, waiting for the marksman to get back from wherever it was he suddenly had to go. By some twist of fate, Mako was also here trying to bail Junkrat out of a prison sentence for… sticking dynamite down the pants of a cartoon mascot at an amusement park. Brilliant stuff, that kid came up with; when the news broadcast the smiling, gold-toothed grin of the demo-man, Jesse called his bodyguard up in a fit of curiosity. He’d summoned him here in a heartbeat.

”Tomorrow.” The mask fogged, and then cleared. “Wants me to break him out.” And Jesse nodded his head as if there was no doubt in the world Roadhog could manage that bust. 

”Got a place to stay in the meantime? If not,” Even through the lenses, he could see eyes narrowing at him with cautious curiosity. They weren’t the type to play games; far too old now for that kind of behavior. The implication of saying yes lingered between them, even after Mako gave a subtle nod of his head.  
Could be more than a conversation and dinner, this time. 

 

Flute

Awards and ceremonies were meant for people like Lena Oxton; the poster child, the exemplary, she played by every rule in the book and her payoff was a fat monthly check and a champagne flute. A toast, to the hero of Overwatch.

Others who’d been depraved of glory seemed to savor the limelight. Take the Shimadas, for example, both of whom were present here for different reasons. Hanzo remained by the gunslinger’s side most of the festivities, only parting from him to get intimate with the self-serve bar. Genji was bouncing around with a grin, one arm hooked around the shoulders of Lúcio Correia dos Santos (who was, oddly enough, much shorter in real life than Jesse’d ever imagined) and the other around the shoulders of the infamous Jamison Fawkes. All three had been awarded for technical reasons, and Hanzo also received acknowledgement for defensive maneuvers that saved the lives of thousands of innocent people. It was a proud day for him, probably, except he didn’t seem remotely like he cared. 

McCree was minimally interested in ceremony just as well; awards collected dust on a shelf somewhere, and he had no shelf to put the fucking thing on in the first place. For his own acknowledgements, he made sure to make himself scarce. While they mentioned him at the podium, Tracer’s sad eyes searched the crowd for his absent face. 

What could he say? Disappointment was his specialty.

”Was looking for you.” Came the rumble of Junkrat’s singular bodyguard, who despite the black-tie event was still donning his mask. “Sheila was calling your name, seemed upset after.” He raked a hand through his hair at the statement, pulling the cigarillo from his lips before turning to Roadhog with a half-assed glare. 

”Lena can cry me a damn river, Mako. It don’t matter. None of this shit matters.” 

The gunslinger draped back over the balustrade when his dead cigarillo was tossed below. After a few minutes a hand was pressed up between his shoulder blades, and despite himself, he leaned back into the touch as it kneaded. Mako’s body was warm and oddly familiar against him, despite the layers of cloth separating them.

“It’s all a waste of time and money. Y’all know we don’t deserve none of this—today they’re handin’ you an award ‘n tomorrow they comin’ at you with a fuckin’ arrest warrant.” 

 

Dominate

The hotel bed creaked beneath their combined weight, even if the movement between them was subtle. Filed teeth caught his bottom lip, and he moaned until a kiss smothered him quiet again. In these brief meetings, it was usually the brunette on his back with legs spread wide; dominated by the brute strength of the bodyguard until he collapsed from the sheer exhaustion of climax. 

He wasn’t going to play like that tonight, though- Jesse used his strength to pin the heavy body below him down, forcing wide thighs to part for his hips to nestle between. He felt Mako’s head nudge against his shoulder warily, muscular arms coming to drape along the gunslinger’s tattooed back, and the subtle slowness of breath indicating that a switch tonight might just be a welcomed change of pace. 

So long as the bigger man was in the mood, Jesse was more than enthusiastic to reciprocate. 

 

Power

The power tended to short out at the worst of times, and tonight was no exception. 

Hanzo was glaring daggers at him from beneath an electric blanket, with Jamie flopped across his lap like an oversized, flea-ravaged cat expecting to be pet in consolidation. The junker had both bright eyes focused on Jesse’s shoulders; curiously waiting for him to announce what he assumed was wrong with the electricity – shorting out while they were in the midst of watching an exceptionally riveting episode of British Bake Off. Bastard!

”I can’t figure what’s goin’ on, sugar.” He could feel Hanzo’s contempt diffuse as his expression softened. Jamie rolled to glance up at the archer’s face, pursing his lips and knitting his brows. 

“Yeah? Then what knocked the fuckin’ thing out?” As if to answer, the power suddenly blared back on with a flash of bright yellow. Hanzo almost leapt off the ground; Jamie skittering onto all fours with a shriek before grinning at the television screen. “Ah, there’s Miss Berry’s fat ‘ol head again, telly’s back on.”

The cowboy squinted between the television and window; smiling despite himself at the blurry shape of Roadhog rigging something onto the electrical pole outside of the apartment. 

He was a renaissance man, after all.


End file.
